Stories Through The Ages

”Whose gonna play this old piano
After I’m not here.
Whose gonna play these sad songs to ya
Cause your eyes to fill with tears.”

Ah, Jerry Lee Lewis, The Killer, One of a kind. I hope his memory never dies, flaws and all he’s one of my favorites. Just like the singers from my mom’s generation—Frank Sinatra, Perry Como and Doris Day. And from my grandmother’s generation, Mamie Smith, Ethel Waters and Al Jolson. My goodness that man could sing. I still listen to Al, but it won’t be long before the memories have faded away completely, like full service gas stations. You’d better get the recollections down on paper or everyone will forget or never know in the first place—NO, I don’t mean the memory of Jerry Lee, I mean the memory of you!

Boulder, Colorado, July 21, 1969 a date of stupendous importance. Neil Armstrong stepped down the lunar ladder onto the surface of the moon ‘One small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind’. I watched it from a rundown shack up past two mile canyon--must have been 20 of us long-haired flower children gathered around an old Magnavox secreting a snowy blur of a picture that could have been filmed in a warehouse in Burbank for all I know. “One small step….” But that wasn’t the stupendous part--that occurred earlier when I had my first toke on a joint passed ceremoniously back and forth with Janet Patron who captured my heart in a haze of smoke and the witnessing of history. The secrets of life were revealed to me with crystal clarity, the lights of Boulder shimmering below that airless cathedral of my youth—as soon as the show was over I professed my undying love to Janet then spent the rest of the evening trying to disentangle myself from the lizard lock her boyfriend put on me until I cried ‘uncle’ and swore never to molest her again or even come near her--scouts honor.

The humiliation was complete later that night when Rich told me that there wasn’t any weed it was just oregano that I smoked—I was high on a condiment. They laughed at me for years after, “Remember that night up at Rich’s place when you got high smoking oregano?”

Yeah, I remember, thanks for the memories.

Shouldn’t these precious moments be recorded and left for all eternity for our loved ones. Maybe choose a different memory but you get the idea.

I know they don’t give a damn now but someday, after we’re gone, they may be combing through an old box of scrapbooks and find that story and say “Good God Almighty, great uncle Hank got high on oregano and fell in love with some lady during the first moon landing.” That’s history right there. You don’t want to let it slip away never to be remembered by anyone again.

Bennett, Colorado, November 22, 1963. The news spread like the plague, President Kennedy had been shot. We were devastated and seriously thought that the end was nigh. Not just the end of life as we knew it but the end of the world. Rumors were flying, the Russians had launched the A Bomb, Castro was invading Miami. We were ducking under our desks and praying for deliverance.

Don and I took it upon ourselves to lower the flag to half-staff. I don’t remember the thought process but somehow, in our addled adolescent minds, we felt it was incumbent upon us to do so. Maybe it was because it was noon and we were walking to lunch and happened to be standing nearby when we heard the news. Looming above us was the gloomy old elementary school, shrouded in mist like a haunted specter from a bad horror movie. One of the upper windows flew open and the new fourth grade teacher screamed at us, “What the hell are you doing, I’m a Veteran.” Don and I stopped, embarrassed that we didn’t know that only veterans could lower the flag to half-staff.

“The man isn’t even in his grave,” he shouted. “Get the hell back to class you assholes.” And he slammed the window down leaving us there scarred to death, the flag snapping in the breeze and the sound of the ropes banging against the flag pole, a sound that, to this day, summons a melancholy feeling in my soul that almost reduces me to tears. The truth is that our lives did change—we just didn’t know it yet.

Where were you when it happened? Write it down, leave the memory for your family. Someday someone will want to know.

Hijacked and Piggybacked

If you order “Stories Through The Ages Baby Boomers Plus 2018” and receive “The Devil in the White City” in addition to notifying Amazon, please let us know.

Putting a book for sale on Amazon is usually fairly painless  - not so for Baby Boomers Plus 2018! After completing the process to make it available and receiving the Amazon ASIN number I went to Amazon to verify the listing. I searched using the number. Lo and behold Baby Boomer Plus displayed, but a book called “The Devil in the White City” also displayed. The ASIN is supposed to be unique, so this wasn’t good. I contacted support, asking what was going on. My inquiry was immediately escalated. I got a response back that they didn’t know how this happened and would try to figure it out. I really didn’t care how it happened – I just wanted it fixed.  They eventually assigned Baby Boomers a unique number, but the damage was done. In Amazon’s mind, memory or whatever Amazon has, the two books are the same.

“The Devil in the White City” is a popular book, which is good and bad for Baby Boomers. The good is that it is getting exposure that it normally wouldn’t. The bad is that the scammers have come out of the woodwork. There are now over 100 sellers who have piggybacked on our listing with Used, New and even Collectible books to sell. The listing has been hijacked twice –Living Springs Publishers was replaced as the seller and any book sales credited to the hijacker.  Not only that, they sent the customer involved “The Devil in the White City” instead of Baby Boomers Plus. There are actually videos online that tell people how to hijack other seller’s listings.

What I have learned:

We need to check our Amazon listings daily. A Living Springs Publishers listing that has:

Ships from and sold by Amazon.com

has not been hijacked.

A  listing that has:

Sold by “Some company” and fulfilled by Amazon

has been hijacked.

It makes me wonder, when shopping on Amazon – who am I really buying from.  –Jacqueline Veryle Peavler

Undertoad by Henry E. Peavler (Part 2)

I can float for a long time, surely someone will see me. Larry and Diane are in the palapa reading. Don’t they realize I’m in trouble, haven’t they missed me yet? I can’t even see the palapa, how far have I floated, how long have I been out here? At least twenty minutes.

I panic again, oh my God, swim hard for shore, harder, oh Lord. I’m wearing myself out. I’ll pray; oh, you hypocrite, I’ll pray anyway, it can’t hurt. Lord, please help me, I promise I will believe in you and not be a sinner. I’m not that bad a sinner anyway. Oh Christ, what a double-dealer I am. What’s the matter with me, don’t give up, just keep floating, block negative thoughts and think positive. I’m positive the sun is burning my face; I’m positive that I wish I had my sunglasses; I’m positive I am going to die.

Think logically, once Larry figures out I’m missing he’ll go into the restaurant, raise a commotion and they’ll call the Salvavidas. Then they’ll find a boat or Jet Ski and come find me; that’s plausible. I’m rested again, I’ll try and break free, swim hard, wait for a wave to help me toward shore. Swim now, harder, Go, Go.

Jesus Christ! I’m getting further away from shore. Don’t fight it, roll over and float again, and breathe, for God’s sake; don’t panic. I’m not dying, I haven’t heard God’s voice or seen any Angels, my life hasn’t flashed before my eyes; this isn’t dying. I’m just in danger of dying, in grave danger. Is there any other kind? Ha, ha! That’s good, that’s the ticket. I’ll think of famous quotes and float on my back, I can float forever.

The sun is incredibly hot and the atmosphere is bright, surreal like a high plains winter freeze when the air is so frigid that that it looks white, but the temperature is 100. Even the hotels look white, blanco, but it’s not winter, I think I am hallucinating. I feel sick, Mother always said, “Never go swimming until an hour after you eat or you’ll get cramps and drown.” It wasn’t 30 minutes ago that I ate and now I am going to drown, you should never argue with a known saying.

“It’s not unheard of for a sceptic or agnostic to think in religious terms,” my professor 50 years ago said, and he was a renowned sceptic, agnostic and atheist and expert on all religions; he was an ordained minister and an arrogant bastard. There were 50 people in the class, I came in late one time and he called me out in front of everyone, told me I was an inconsiderate buffoon. I wasn’t sure what he meant, I assumed it was akin to being a religious heathen. Is this what they mean by my life flashing before my eyes? I had forgotten about that embarrassing episode.

Maybe I should look to sea instead of the shore, think outside the box. I’m past the big waves so wait for a swell and when I’m at the top look for a fishing boat; they should be returning to take their catch to the market. Nothing there, and now I grow weary, my muscles are starting to fatigue and I’ve swallowed so much salt water. Suddenly I see the reality, I see where this is headed and it isn’t good. I think of my children and hate the thought of them being told that I was lost at sea, presumed drowned, isn’t that how the papers describe it?

I should be better prepared for this, maybe if I were raised according to the Quran or Buddhism or if I were a Hindu or even a Catholic; Presbyterian is what I am and it seems so inadequate now. I went to bible study every week, Church on Sunday, choir practice, Sunday school and Bible camp, but right now at this crucial moment all I remember from those 18 years of lessons is how to prepare for a nuclear attack, dive under the pew and bury your head in your hands. What was Reverend Ryerson’s lesson about dying, about how to die, I don’t remember, we go to heaven, I recollect, but how does it work? I had college courses but I am not an expert in religious doctrine, like the arrogant professor.

If I were God everyone would live forever, that was a game we used to play: what you would do if you were God, but I remember now, it isn’t true and I didn’t say that. Living forever wasn’t part of my personal God world, I made the same inane comments as everyone else, end world hunger, stop children from suffering, no more wars. Mary Jane Thomas made the comment about living forever but there were so many objections to it, you would get bored, no need to make babies. We made fun of her, she was the only person I knew who had three first names and one of them was a boy’s name.

I did say, “That must be why God allows children to suffer, because he’s bored, he’s been up there so long and seen so many babies, and so many people come and go that he’s just bored; it doesn’t mean anything to him anymore, people slaughtered, no big deal, I’ll just make some more.” I heard my mother’s best friend talking about that idea and it appealed to me so I borrowed it; that made Mrs. Thomas very mad. She said I was a Religious Heathen for talking about God that way and I was embarrassed much like in my freshman religious studies class. That’s why I thought an inconsiderate buffoon was the same thing, both terms embarrassed me.

I’m hallucinating, these things happened over 50 years ago. I should open my eyes, but they hurt, I should see where I am, floating is no problem, thinking is counterproductive so I won’t think.

But this is all wrong, not the way I’m going to die, I just know it. It’s all a big lie, I’ve been swimming here before, how can this be happening? Betrayal, that’s what I feel, like when you learn that your mother isn’t all powerful, or all knowing, and in fact, she lied to you about certain things; Biff Noonan telling me that there is no Santa, and laughing when I expressed dismay; I felt betrayed when I went to Mother asking for the truth but I could see it in her eyes, so my seven year old world was re-arranged again.

Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone, that’s a known saying right there, impossible to argue against. Double down on all my problems on shore and I would still take it over this.

I’ve got to see where I am, keep my head up, wait, I see someone on shore, “Help, help me,” I shout as loud as I can and I wave my arms like crazy, “Help, please” oh no, it’s the hat salesman. He has about 10 hats piled on his head, he looks like a deformed cowboy, a long necked vaquero seeking disoriented cattle on a deserted beach. I am in that absurd Marquis de Sade play, I’m the star. (to be continued)